His enthusiasm suddenly collapsed
like a pricked balloon, and all his former pessimism returned. The
troops were displaying energy and discipline; but what did that amount
to if they had to keep retreating all the time, unable on account
of strict orders to fight or defend the land? "Just as it was in the
'70's," he sighed. "Outwardly there is more order, but the result is
going to be the same."
As though a negative reply to his faint-heartedness, he overheard the
voice of a soldier reassuring a farmer: "We are retreating, yes--only
that we may pounce upon the Boches with more strength. Grandpa Joffre is
going to put them in his pocket when and where he will."
The mere sound of the Marshal's name revived Don Marcelo's hope.
Perhaps this soldier, who was keeping his faith intact in spite of the
interminable and demoralizing marches, was nearer the truth than the
reasoning and studious officers.
He passed the rest of the day making presents to the last detachments of
the column. His wine cellars were gradually emptying. By order of
dates, he continued distributing thousands of bottles stored in the
subterranean parts of the castle. By evening he was giving to those who
appeared weakest bottles covered with the dust of many years. As the
lines filed by the men seemed weaker and more exhausted. Stragglers were
now passing, painfully drawing their raw and bleeding feet from their
shoes.
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